


I am...

by SLWalker



Series: Arch to the Sky [68]
Category: due South
Genre: Arch to the Sky, Chicago (1998), First Person, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-03
Updated: 2011-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-24 06:46:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLWalker/pseuds/SLWalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>July 1998: The next day, Turnbull's and Vecchio's thoughts as they try to figure out how the world is different, and how it's the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I am...

\--  
 _I am..._  
\--

...at something of a loss; I have shifted but the world hasn't, and it's rather disconcerting. My mirror remains exactly the same as it was only a few mornings ago. Still cracked, still speckled, still adorned with a weave made of beach grass by nimble fingers just over a week ago. One like it hangs from another mirror, now. It may be the only literal representation of this shift that exists. I'm not certain how I feel about that.

"I'm in love with him."

It's easier to say, now. But with it comes a moment of panic that somehow, with the sunset and subsequent sunrise, everything has reset to _before_ ; rebooted, restored, reconstituted, refreshed, redeemed.

All of those, for the thought, become synonyms for _loss_.

I'm not thinking clearly, and when I reach for my razor, it hits the floor; my control over my own hands often tends to be elusive, and I curse that with a wordless sigh.

This is silly. It has been _one night_ ; even I cannot believe that I would lose a man within a single night, particularly as I have been absent for the entirety of it.

Or is it the other way?

The edge of anxiety remains; what if? What if he changed his mind? What if his own fears stole in during the night, when I could not be there to chase them away, hounding him back into whatever place he went where all things conspired to convince him of his own lack of worth? What if I can't find him there again?

What if?

It's a small mercy that I don't end up cutting myself shaving; I feel like a sleep-walker, pulling on my uniform, lacing my boots, making certain I'm presentable. Every step further convinces me that it must be true; the night and Chicago has stolen it all away, and whatever it was we had managed to build over a weekend (two weekends? two months? two years? two lifetimes?) could not possibly survive the realities of our mutual situations.

Reset, rebooted, restored. Loss.

I am without any proof that the world has shifted with me; I have only fear.

Only hope.

\--  
 _I am..._  
\--

...scared outta my mind.

I keep thinking they have to see it on me, y'know? I try to sneak out before breakfast, just so they don't go askin' any questions about my weekend, 'cause I still don't have any answers. Frannie catches me anyway. I swear, she must have ears like a bat.

"Where are you going? Sneaking around like some kind of bandit," she asks, and her hair's stickin' up in all directions, and you know... she drives me crazy, but right now, she just looks like my kid sister and I love her more than she'd ever let me tell her.

"Out," I say back, and my hand's already on the door knob. "What, you gotta problem with early risers, Frannie?"

"There's somethin' weird about it when it's you, Ray," Frannie says, and she has her arms crossed over her PJs.

"I'm a weird kinda guy," I say, and God, ain't that the truth. I don't even know why I'm up at this hour. It's one thing when I got a plan, but today, I just wanna get out and drive before heading into work. Don't even know where I'm going.

"What should I tell Ma?" she asks, and I know she's hoping I'll spill the beans by using her as my cover. Except, I'm a detective and it's not like I can't see right through that. Woulda worked when I was ten, maybe.

"Nice try," I say, and I know my smirk drives her crazy 'cause she rolls her eyes at me and huffs out a breath.

I'm out the door before she can get another word in.

I don't know where I'm gonna go. Except, maybe somewhere to get a cup of coffee. I think about going over to his place, but I know his schedule well enough now to know he's already on his way to work, and if you want the God's honest truth? He scares me even at the exact same time I miss how he feels at my shoulder.

I'm without any kinda direction, here. Don't know which way's up, down or sideways. I've only got now, and the keys in my hand. Only fear.

Only hope.

\--  
 _I am..._  
\--

...on occasion, still something of a walking disaster.

The Consulate is severely understaffed; it has been for quite some time, in truth. One would suppose that the red tape of bureaucracy would eventually have to clear, but after well over a year, there is no sign that we'll be receiving any additional manpower.

This leaves Inspector Thatcher and myself, and we fill a number of roles neither of us was trained for. It was never a part of either of our job descriptions to process visa requests or immigration forms, and yet, we fill the roles regardless. It's taken me quite a long time to become even passably comfortable being behind a desk, and that vanishes easily under the right sort of pressure: Two conflicting skill-sets in competition. What it is within me that made me an effective police officer, and what it is within me that I had to learn to continue my employment here.

I've done my best to find various forms of harmless relaxation -- cooking and cleaning are both things I enjoy doing -- and it's improved my ability to handle sitting still behind that desk for hours as I process forms, but it has not entirely removed whatever it is within me that seeks to _move_.

Today, I am more desperate for motion than ever; even the walk here has taken no edge from it. And today, of course, I find myself with a stack of forms to complete in triplicate.

"Turnbull!"

Her voice startles me and I inadvertently drag my pen across the carbonless sheet I was filling out, an ugly mark that ruins the form I had been working on for the past twenty minutes.

It takes me a moment too long to reply, before she is standing in the doorway. I scramble to my feet, as is proper, and my chair rolls back to slam into the filing cabinet behind me.

It does nothing for my nerves, set on edge already. "Yes, Inspector?" I ask, as calmly as I possibly can.

"I need the DD-11523B..." her voice trails off as she steps closer, looking at the desk. "...that you've just doodled on."

My hands twitch. I can feel a muscle jump in the back of my neck. _Breathe_.

"Ten minutes, Constable. I want that on my desk, completed and pristine, in ten minutes," she says, as though I were a puppy who had just had an accident off of the newspapers.

"Yes, Inspector," I reply, and only after she's back in her own office do I put my face in my hands to continue breathing it off.

There is another small mercy, however; the short-staffed consulate, with its paperwork, keeps me from thinking too hard about Ray. Worrying about Ray. Missing Ray. I have paperwork, and it keeps me from looking at the clock to calculate how long before my lunch hour; how long before his.

Will he be here? What will I see, if he is? I have no answers. Only paperwork.

\--  
 _I am..._  
\--

...really damn sick of paperwork. I mean, I get it. Physically, I'm not up to snuff, and I ain't exactly all that up to snuff mentally these days, either. I get it, but I don't like it. I don't belong behind a desk, doin' everyone else's followups and forms. I belong out there, solving crimes and putting away the bad guys and being the good guy.

When I actually manage to, it reminds me of why I wanted to be the good guy in the first place.

I used to know that, y'know? I used to _know_ what it was like to be the good guy. It took me awhile, yeah. I was always on guard against screwin' up when I started in Patrol. But eventually, I got pretty good. And then I got my job with vice. And now I'm here. And every step, I had to go through it all again: What if I screw up? What if I ruin lives?

Major cases nearly ruined me; I was hammered, overwhelmed and no one wanted to work with me.

And then there was Benny.

I never felt like a good guy near as much as I did when I was workin' with him. Much as I complained, much as I bitched and... okay, yeah, whined about it? I knew I was.

I knew I was.

I knew I was so much, I knew I could handle Vegas.

Reality's a bitch.

"Hey, Vecchio, you got that report?"

I swing my gaze to Dewey, and he looks a little wary, though he hides it well behind that goofball attitude and macho-man image; scared little boy inside, and I see it, and something in me goes dark and cold and I smile at him, and a voice that isn't mine asks, "Do you really need it right this second, Dewey?" And his eyes go hard, but I can see the fear in them, too; oh, Dewey, you're always trying to live up to something even when you're trying hard to pretend you don't, and in a split second I can see -- _this isn't me_ \-- all the ways I could drive a blade between his ribs and then I snap my gaze back to my desk.

"Sorry, yeah. One more minute."

My hands are shaking a little when I go back to finishing it up.

I don't look at the clock. I don't want to think about him. I don't want the Bookman anywhere near him. I don't ever want him to see those eyes or hear that voice.

I'm a walking disaster and I know it.

\--  
 _I am..._  
\--

...watching the clock, despite having told myself repeatedly that I should not. Time remains steady; it is only in rare hours where I forget the passage of it, and those belong to Ray. I have fifteen minutes before my lunch hour starts. Ray's overlaps mine in the latter half of that. I am measures of every emotion I cannot name and many more I can; dread and hope and anxiety and anticipation.

For now, the forms are filed and the Inspector is having her lunch. I answer the phone, and it is Francesca; I admit that the deception does not particularly feel good, as I reply to her in French as though I cannot understand her. It isn't entirely a lie; I sincerely _do_ have difficulty understanding her, especially of late with her attentions focused upon me in this manner. Still, I put her on hold in order to transfer her call to Ottawa. Of course, she hangs up in frustration before I'm finished putting the call through.

I do not look forward to the day, if it should come at all, when she finds out it's her brother I'm in love with.

I am not even entirely certain I look forward to seeing _him_ , should he show up during that shared half-hour time.

I watch the clock regardless.

Did the world shift with me? Or did the night and Chicago steal it away? What will I see in his eyes when he looks at me?

I am sinking, and I'm painfully aware of that...

...I am falling, and I don't know what will happen when I come crashing down.

For a moment it feels cold.

 _No._

My hands are shaking when I pull them down my face, and I don't realize I'm grinding my teeth together until the Inspector's voice shatters the silence. The fall's arrested; the world comes back into focus, and I'm still breathing.

She's looking at me, with that guarded expression, and then there is that barely visible shift in her eyes towards something softer and warmer. It's a shame, I think, that she does not wear that expression more often. Right now, though, I wish she wasn't wearing it for me.

"Go to lunch, Turnbull," she says, and then she moves to her own office, briskly.

"Yes, sir," I answer, even though she can't hear, and finally I can _move_.

I have a half an hour.

I run.

\--  
 _I am..._  
\--

...walkin' about as fast as I can to the Riv. Fast as I can without looking desperate, anyway. I managed to cut out a few minutes early, and all I can think is 'get to the car, get to the car', 'cause I just can't stand to be behind my desk anymore, and fuck it, I shoulda just gave the damn thing to Kowalski because sometimes, I really hate being at it.

Hind sight's twenty-twenty.

I don't even turn the key just yet. Just sit back in the seat and breathe.

She doesn't smell like my other Rivs. They smelled like me, and Ange, and a whole string of girlfriends, and then they smelled like Benny and Dief, and God, how pathetic is it that I can close my eyes and remember that?

She doesn't smell like the others.

She smells like me and Ren.

He smells good, even as some kinda scent-ghost against my seat. Like soap and sunlight. I breathe until I'm not breathin' quite as hard, and then I turn the key. My hand's still shaking some. I hate it. It never shook in Vegas, and it pisses me off, y'know? That I could go through all that, steady as a rock, but when I come back, I shake like some kinda nervous little dog with big eyes, about to piss all over the floor.

I snarl at myself. Yeah. Vecchio the Armani Chihuahua. Great.

The engine roars when I pull out of the 2-7's parking lot. I don't know where I'm goin', even though I do. All I know is that I gotta _drive_ , and maybe if I drive fast enough, I can leave it all behind. Maybe if I can just...

The pretty thing made of beach grass he made for me swings with the force of my turns, and for just a split-second, I look at it.

I take my foot off the gas pedal. Another breath.

Soap and sunlight.

I'm not gonna run scared. Even though I am.

\--  
 _I am..._  
\--

...terrified.

It seems utterly pointless to lie about it, when I see the Riviera pull up to the curb, glinting green and reflected blue skies and sunshine to the point where I cannot see Ray until the door swings open and he steps out. It's a hot day, and I have only just caught my breath from running, lunch long-since forgotten.

The stray thought occurs that I should ask to rearrange my lunch hour to match his, and I don't even know why I have it.

He has yet to look up, navigating the sidewalk and the gate with practiced motion. I can see it written in him; today has been a bad day. His gait, his shoulders, the steadfast refusal to look up from the ground. I push down a thousand fears -- _was it me? was it us? was it the weekend? did I shift without him? did I lose him?_ \-- and stand firm, waiting.

He knows I'm here; he stops well before he makes it up the walk, and he is both painfully close and painfully out of reach. I feel a spike of anxiety. He shivers.

 _Look at me._

I don't say it, but after a moment, he does.

He looks hunted and haunted and frightened and tired. He looks uncertain and wary and searching. And under all of those, there is that _longing_ , that hope that cannot believe that this is real, but wants to.

I feel all of those. And I know that he sees it, too.

"Still here, Ren," Ray says, and something lights up in his eyes, chasing away the shadows.

It feels like the whole world shifts, and then I know that the night and Chicago didn't take him away. Tomorrow, I will doubtless wake up and wonder all over again. But right now, he is still here, and I am not going anywhere.

"Yes, Ray," I finally say, and I'm as surprised as he is when we both smile.


End file.
